


The Emperor

by Lucius Parhelion (Parhelion)



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1900's, Historical, M/M, New Mexico, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-01
Updated: 2009-01-01
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11419599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parhelion/pseuds/Lucius%20Parhelion
Summary: Former Rough Rider Eli Fletcher y Baca is working for Mr. Harry Crewe, a remittance man and likely the richest rancher in the New Mexico Territory of 1908. But now mysteries from the Emperor's past have shown up out West, and solving them will also require recognizing the true nature of the bond between Eli and the Emperor.





	The Emperor

Prologue: England, 1889

After the papers got wind of the establishment on Cleveland Street, Harry knew he was doomed. No, 'doomed' was going it a bit strong. After all, honorable response or no, one couldn't consider pressing a revolver to one's head and pulling the trigger. Not after resolving to weather the storm.

Nonetheless, public scandal-mongering meant someone would be held responsible for a Certain Personage having visited the "indescribably loathsome" establishment, even if the visit had been merely to observe, little else but a horrid joke. And that someone to be blamed could not be the Personage in question.

There remained Harry. He had gone along to the boy-brothel. As his elder brother John had long predicted, he had gone along with some fellow or other one time too many. So now John had the duty of passing sentence on Harry's offense. A footman escorted Harry to the room John used for estate business, a worse court than the library but a better one than their family solicitor's offices.

Once the footman had departed, John looked up at last from the papers on his desk. He didn't ask Harry to sit before he said, "Both a sodomite and a fool."

"Yes." They had been trained not to give excuses.

John's lips twitched. "Not your idea, I suppose."

"I believe the affair was a jest of sorts." Harry took a deep breath, and continued, "Directed at me, that is."

"I see." The silence was as heavy as the oak wainscoting, the time-darkened oils of horses and dogs, the velvet curtains at the tall windows. "You had given cause for amusement?"

"Not knowingly." He had thought his fondness for a certain noble equerry, a friend of the Personage, well hidden.

"Ah." John studied him. An onlooker might have found the positions of the principles ironic; for all his station, John was a man of temperament and refinement, a Soul and an Aesthete. Harry had been the one who had accompanied their father when he hunted red deer in the Highlands or rode to hounds. Harry had been the one interested in horseflesh and the home acres. If not for his fondness for history, his wish to go up to Cambridge, Harry would have been in the Guards like his older friends. As matters stood, he had imagined he would one day manage family lands for John. No longer.

In any event, John had reached some decision. "I have been told you shall retire abroad." Ever so slightly, his lip curled. John was unamiable when dictated to, no matter how high the station of the one commanding him. "I suppose you are intended to flee to the continent, there to live in idle and drunken disgrace funded by your inheritance from Uncle." John smiled coolly. "As for myself, I would imagine you prefer to be busy."

"Yes." Keeping busy was another trait their father had favored.

"Working with absurd haste--" the smile disappeared "--I have found you three opportunities." John rested a hand on a trio of portfolios stacked to one side of the desktop, all tied shut with the maroon ribbon favored by a particular influential bank. "Nothing in the Empire of course. Rather, there is a rubber plantation in the Dutch Indies, a coffee plantation in Brazil, and a cattle ranch in the Arizona Territory."

The decision was simple. If Harry would have to learn new ways from his workers, he would rather speak their language. "The ranch."

Harry was not surprised when John picked up the top portfolio from the stack. He handed it to Harry. "It is yours. Your remittance. As to the rest, you are no longer ours. You shall, of course, depart tonight. The family name is common enough; you may employ it if you choose."

"Will you see to my servants?" His valet, for one, would never survive the wilds of America.

"Yes." John reached for his fountain pen.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry turned away.

"Harry."

He turned back.

"A word of advice. If you will hunt foxes, get behind the hounds."

Harry nodded. His elder brother went back to his papers. Harry left the office, and the Manor, without another word.

*** 

Alone in the first-class compartment on the train to Liverpool, he untied the ribbon on the portfolio John had given him and took out the papers it contained. Setting the bundled correspondence, the records of title, and the summaries of accounts to one side, he unfolded the map.

Beyond large, yes, perhaps twenty by thirty miles. And in the New Mexico Territory, not Arizona; they were somehow different, Harry supposed. Beef cattle. What the devil did he know about beef cattle?

He stared out the window blindly for a minute or so before he composed himself. This past year, he had nearly forgotten. The trick -- he'd learned it years ago at school -- the trick was not to give way. To not give oneself away. There was the real prize for staying busy.

Taking out a small notebook from his coat pocket, he opened it on his knee. Then, fountain pen uncapped and poised, he asked himself the same question again, but in earnest. Precisely what did he know about beef cattle and the men who tended them?

 

I - New Mexico Territory, 1908

 

All Eli had meant to do was have a quiet drink. After greeting the other fellows who'd accompanied owners to the Stockgrower's Association meeting in Las Vegas, New Mexico, he'd propped himself against the hotel bar to enjoy a beer and a plate of chuck from the free lunch table. But right as Eli began peeling his hard-boiled egg, some kid in a battered Stetson started laying it off.

Junior had cut out one of the barflies and bought him a bourbon, but the kid had been drinking enough himself that everyone in the room got to hear their jawing. "This country round here isn't much like Texas, is it?" Junior asked, tone scoffing, voice loud.

"Nope." Even a barfly was short when answering a question like that. 

"Can't do this, can't do that. Can't carry a gun on a drive. Can't avoid the greasers. Even the Emperor hires greasers, or so I hear."

All of a sudden, it was quiet enough you could have heard a calf bawl clear over in Clayton. Eli had already put down his egg, and he turned around. As it had to be, Junior was wearing a .45. Another fellow aiming to be a dime-novel hero: you'd think this was 1899, with the Ketchum boys still roaming around Las Vegas plugging folks, the way he was behaving. Eli could sense the other patrons watching -- mostly amused, the sons of bitches -- as he straightened and strolled over to Junior.

"Can't get a woman, not even a greaser, worth being--"

"At least you can play mumblepeg here," Eli said, leaning against the bar next to the kid and signaling Sam to pour drinks all around.

"What?"

"You can play mumblepeg. I heard Mr. Goodnight, out in Texas, disapproves of that, not to mention card playing and spirituous liquor." Eli took a thoughtful sip of the new beer Sam had slid over to him, his left hand curled through the handle to cup the heavy coolness of the glass. "But if the local Spaniards bother you too much, you might try the northern Mesa. Still mostly Anglo on the Mesa spreads."

"Who the hell are you?" the kid asked, sounding both astonished and insulted.

The barfly had eased away. It was George Creed, come down from Wagon Wheel, who said with mild malice, "That's Skinny Fletcher. He rides for the Emperor. And is his prih-vit sec-ra-tree."

"Señor Elias Fletcher y Baca, in the Spanish style," Eli said, offering his free hand for a shake.

Shit, the kid was going for his gun. Before his thought could become words, Eli had brought his beer mug around, crashing it into the kid's head. Beer and glass flew everywhere. The kid went down like a sack of feed.

Amidst the hoots and laughter, Eli squatted to check for a pulse. Yep. Amazing he hadn't cracked the kid's skull like the shell on that hardboiled egg. Eli stood back up and said to the bartender, "I do apologize for that, Sam. Didn't mean to behave like your establishment was something out of a Wild West Show." He got out his wallet.

With a shrug, Sam said, "Saw where his hand was going. 'Sides, a man has to honor his mother's memory." He still took the dollar bills before he telephoned for the law.

*** 

By the time Mr. Crewe was done with his Stockgrower's banquet, Eli had polished up his notes of the earlier meeting, talked to the policemen, and finished his own lunch. Some version of the news must have made its way back toward the formal dining room because Crewe came into the bar with those broad shoulders of his tensed up and his bay hair just a trifle mussed. He relaxed when he spotted Eli, but his tone was dry when he came over and asked, "Isn't your job to fence off trouble?"

"Was there trouble, sir?" Eli asked, standing until Crewe sat.

Leaning back in the chair, Crewe raised two fingers. Sam quickly brought him a shot glass of rye. Only then did Crewe say, "Less trouble than the Banker's Panic, more trouble than a bogged steer, or so I understand." But the meeting and banquet must have gone the way Crewe wanted because his lips twitched before he threw back his shot.

"Just a green kid well liquored. He'll live to have a sore skull."

That earned Eli an assessing stare from Crewe's pale blue eyes. "You don't think the youngster will wake up rather tetchy? I understand he carried a six-shooter."

"He'll wake up in jail, which is just fine. He can stay there until he settles down, by which time we'll be gone. Unless you were thinking about our being in town much longer?"

"Hmm. No, my business will be done once I've visited the bank. But there is a dance tonight at the Odd Fellow's."

Eli reined back a grimace. He'd meant to spend his evening with some of his maternal cousins on their spread just outside of town, which would have been safer than any dance. He wasn't a man for dancing with women; if he were forced to tell the tale, he wasn't a man for women at all. Not that his Hispano cousins weren't also set on hitching him up to one of the available girls, but their courting customs were formal and so easier to dodge. Still, complaining wouldn't do a sand hill's worth of good. Mr. Crewe was about the biggest flirt in the New Mexico Territory, and he dearly loved his dancing.

He must have paused too long. Crewe asked, "Unless you have some previous engagement?"

"No, sir."

Pursing his lips, Crewe seemed about to say something. Then he changed whatever it was to, "Very well." He got up and so did Eli. "Since you're not busy, I could use an escort."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Eli pushed back his suit coat over his own revolver. This was the first time he'd worn a gun to town in a couple of years, but Crewe had loaned lots of money to smaller owners during the worst of the greenback shortage last fall so that they could pay their winter feed bills. Eli had figured there'd be some private squaring up when this meeting was done -- what with sales of two-year-olds after the spring roundup and all -- and it seemed he'd been right.

He wasn't much surprised when a couple of the fellows in the bar, including George Creed, heaved themselves up to walk along with Mr. Crewe to the San Miguel National Bank. All ragging aside, New Mexico was mostly tamed these days. None of the other owners wanted the fellow who was about the biggest rancher in the Territory robbed on his way to a bank vault. That wouldn't be civilized.

Civilization was also on display at the Odd Fellow's Hall that evening, and no one could say Eli didn't lend a hand to help out with the show. He danced most of the dances, taking refuge with the men on their side of the hall only when he couldn't abide repeating himself one more time. Later the same night, he made a list on hotel stationery to prove to himself he wasn't just stretching the blanket about the ladies' formal conversation:

Don't you just love the musicians? 8  
My, isn't this a warm summer evening. 6  
The decorations committee did wonderfully with the hall, didn't they? 4  
It certainly is close tonight. 4  
I understand you rode with the Rough-Riders, Mr. Fletcher. 3  
How well Mr. Crewe dances. 2  
I could use a glass of lemonade. 2  
Is it true you shot a man today? 2  
Would you like to try and catch the breeze outside? 1  
Are you still having trouble with snakeweed out on the River-R? 1

That last question came from a schoolteacher who'd grown up on a ranch down in Lincoln County, and if Eli had been interested in courting at all, he might have tried his hand at cutting her out of the herd for asking it. Since he wasn't, he managed to move her along to Crewe for the next waltz. Eli knew that a waltz with The Emperor was worth points in the game the womenfolk played among themselves.

Passing on a lady of that quality, you'd think Eli would have gotten some gratitude in return. Instead, as he and Mr. Crewe walked back to the Plaza Hotel after the dance, Crewe suddenly said, "A pleasant dance, but not quite like when I first came to the Territory."

Eli made an inquiring noise.

"Candle wax ground across the rough floorboards of those old adobe halls so we could dance, and some leather-lunged fiddler calling the figures of a quadrille. No electric lights."

Although he'd only been nine or ten at the time, Eli remembered the life well. "No concrete sidewalks then. No telephones."

"No, nor street railways."

"Pretty soon they'll have a flying machine in town and we can all go for rides." A fantasy, but he liked the notion. "That'll be something to see."

"Haw." Crewe brayed out that curt laugh of his. "Pleasant to hear from someone who enjoys the prospect of things to come. Most of the banquet today was dedicated to complaints of things not being what they used to be and the problems that causes. I want them speaking of the future." Eli could see Crewe's headshake in the glow from a streetlight they were passing. "The range was fenced before I arrived. The cattle boom was over. But you'd think all this happened ten minutes ago, rather than before the turn of the 'nineties."

Now Eli saw where Crewe was heading. "Never mind. You'll keep 'em rounded up and moving." Sometime Mr. Crewe got to brooding, and part of Eli's job was to keep him from wandering off-trail when he did.

"Yes, with help. We need statehood. I believe Washington is considering opening the dry ranges to homesteading." After a snort of derision, Crewe added, "I'll be glad to return to the River-R. Your sort of ruckus never was the part of town life that I liked. I prefer for my secretary to work as a secretary." Rather than as a bodyguard, he meant, like Tom Carpenter used to be back in the 'nineties when he'd had Eli's job.

"Could've skipped all the fuss myself," Eli agreed, and the usual, comfortable silence returned for the rest of their walk back to the hotel.

At the front door, Eli said, "Hope you'll excuse me, sir. Thought I'd have a smoke in the lobby before I head upstairs."

"I'm not coming inside. I'll be strolling around town a little." He probably meant he'd be visiting the respectable establishment over toward East Las Vegas that housed the Widow Dugan and her three "daughters."

Eli made sure this knowledge didn't show on his face. "Well, good night, then."

"Good night, Eli," Crewe said, and strode off down the sidewalk. From behind, he had a horseman's gait and a strong, solid build that sure looked fine in his well-tailored, go-to-town suit.

With a head-shake at himself, Eli went into the lobby. When the Emperor was looking fine, it was well past time for Eli to hunt again. A long and weary job, finding another man who wouldn't pitch at an approach for a ride. Sometimes he envied normal men their respectable-looking houses with widows and daughters.

Never for long, though.

***

They rode out at first light the next morning. They could have taken a train south to the Rock Island Line, headed east over to Tucumcari, and then transferred to the spur running north through the River-R toward the coal mine at Dawson. That would've shortened their trip to a day and left only a few hours of that day spent riding. But Crewe liked keeping a close eye on the countryside and nothing helped the view like a good, long trip on horseback.

Although he knew what lay ahead, Crewe must still have come back to the hotel late. Even after downing a steaming cup of coffee brought to him by the hotel cook, he was just about nodding off as he paid the bill. He only came awake when they went out to the horses.

Eli didn't waste any time worrying about Crewe. Nodding off or no, Crewe had still spent a few minutes gentling his mount and murmuring to it before he swung up into the saddle. After all these years, he couldn't rope worth the telling, but he rode like he'd been weaned in a saddlebag. Just as well, seeing the trip ahead was sixty miles or so, with a full day of it gone even before they were back in the Red River country. And steeldusts, with their uneven, rambling, cowhorse gaits, weren't anything you'd call brisk on roads.

Heading east, they rode through the short, brown grasses, the deep brown soils, and the piñon pines of the Mesa, and then dropped down the rim into the bunch grasses, red soils, and mesquite of the lower country. The day grew warm, warmer still as they lost the Mesa's altitude. Eli was back in proper ranch clothing, so he opened his vest a little wider, unbuttoned his collar to cool some sweat, and owned himself comfortable. At least he didn't have to worry about turning brick red and peeling before he darkened up in the sun, like Crewe did.

Still, contrary to the ladies' complaints at the Odd-Fellows dance, early summer hadn't been all that warm this year. They'd had fine riding weather for the past month. Eli wasn't too surprised when Crewe broke the silence to say, "I think we'll ride the grant fence when we return from Manhattan."

"Yes, sir," Eli said, and silence fell again.

It wasn't hard, sounding willing, even if they'd be spending two weeks covering just a hundred twenty miles or so. It was wise not to hurry across the rugged terrain on the fringes of the ranch, so Crewe took his time. He could spare the extra days, having enough sense not to manage the River-R himself; for that he had Bill Stanley, a canny stockman from the staked plains with a yen toward improving the River-R range cattle with Hereford blood. Eli had heard a lot about breed lines the past five years.

Crewe took care of money and politics off his acres, and turned out as a better-than-most range manager during the spring and fall roundups when every hand was needed. The rest of the year he'd patch the odd hole in the work roster or take care of tasks he'd find for himself and for Eli. And nobody ever had to guess who made the final decisions on the River-R, which took up some time. Unless Crewe secretly spent his yearly trips back east with his boot heels propped up on some hotel porch railing, dozing away any hours he didn't spend with bankers, the man was never still.

Eli sure hadn't seen any snoozing last fall, the first time Crewe had left the ranch when a roundup was at hand, the first time Crewe had taken along his secretary on a trip to the east. Once Eli had seen inside the strongbox they'd be bringing back from New York City, he'd known why: Pinkertons or no, a fellow escorting gold felt better with his own man at his elbow. They'd run that trip like a cattle drive before a thunderstorm, with no time for resting and eyes always on the horizon for trouble. But maybe this next trip would be different.

Just like some vaudeville mentalist, Crewe broke the quiet to speak of what Eli had been thinking. "I might send you back from Manhattan first and linger a fortnight or so. There will be other chances for you to see the city, and I have some visits to make. By all reports, the grant fence will still be waiting on my return."

Visits. Likely he'd visit more respectable widows and daughters. Or actresses, giving that they were going to New York City. "Yes, sir." Eli shifted his weight and kneed his mount a touch to one side. They were both finishing horses for the River-R wrangler, and this fellow liked to veer left for some reason or other. "I don't mind. Already got a fine look at the place after I mustered out in '98."

They rode on for a minute or two. The trail dipped down toward a stream bottom, and Eli looked sideways to see Crewe frowning at a patch of wild sunflowers. He couldn't be upset by the flowers, which had grown stirrup-high and were as lovely as a man could desire.

Crewe asked the sunflowers, "Did you ever consider staying back east? I thought you would; many more honest distractions are available there for high-spirited young men."

So, this was the stone in Crewe's hoof. "High-spirited like that fellow yesterday? I guess I was about as ornery at his age."

"I guess you were. And about as much trouble waiting to happen."

"That's why you wrote the letter to Colonel Roosevelt so I could join the Riders. I did wonder."

"Haw." Crewe laughed again. "You earned your recommendation. You were promising: no common sort, keen wits, and what seemed to be a good nature. But I had also noticed that you seemed good-natured even when about to pitch like a mustang. Buried tempers are hard for the young to manage, especially those on ranches where the best feature a nickname like Skinny has to offer is being a marked improvement over a nickname like Greasy."

"Well, I was skinny. And my Pa did drive a chuck wagon. Maybe his cooking was a trifle greasy although you couldn't fault his biscuits."

Crewe snorted and fell silent.

Eli used the quiet to turn over Crewe's words and study the real meaning underneath them. Then said, "I may have been a trifle annoyed by that Texan and his talk."

"Mmph."

"Still tried to be friendly. Still wouldn't have been happy to have bedded him down in a box. Not too upset, I reckon, but you know that I'm not subject to that sort of conniption." Eli paused, feeling wry. "Now, there are times being a trifle cold about such matters is a problem."

"These days, yes, given that informal killing is presently frowned upon in this Territory. However, seeing that you are now either an extra range foreman or a private secretary -- depending upon the season, of course -- such occasions should no longer arise with any frequency."

"As long as we won't be toting gold coins from place to place again."

"There's an exercise I have no intention of repeating any time soon." Crewe almost sounded apologetic. "Needs must, however."

"That banking panic sure was an emergency," Eli said. "Not that it's my place to judge."

This snort was louder. Eli smiled.

They rode a mile or two more. Crewe said, "I never found your father's cooking to be overly greasy. His biscuits were superb. Yours are also quite good."

"You need the right amount of soda. And you can't crowd the biscuits together."

"Ah. That may have been responsible for the leaden quality of some of the biscuits I've eaten in the past."

Easing carefully past a rocky stretch of conversation, they talked camp cooking for a while before settling down and leaving the horses to make all the noise. Conversations on horseback worked like that, all raggedy-paced; Eli was held to be a jawer, and durned if he talked more than one mile out of ten. Some of the older hands opened their mouths to spit way more often than to speak. After a few years, the wind and the rain, the sun and the snow, seemed to weather the words right out of a fellow. But there was a comfort to silence when so much of your life was spent riding herd on thoughts you couldn't speak.

Eli glanced over at Crewe. He was studying the land around them with a frown. It had that stripped-down, played-out look of overgrazed acres, but somehow Eli knew land wasn't what the Emperor was seeing. Something else had nailed that scowl into place.

No matter. New Mexico was big enough to swallow most troubles. That was why Eli had bothered coming home.

 

II

They stopped for the night at the settlement of Los Pinos, situated by the Red River upstream from its joining with the Conchas, and as close a place as Eli had to a hometown. Crewe always liked to ride through Los Pinos even though it was something off the quickest route between Las Vegas and the River-R headquarters. Eli supposed Crewe wanted to keep an eye on the settlement. He had helped Los Pinos push its grant through the Court of Private Land Claims in '92, back when lots of the Hispanos had lost their lands for good and all, and then advanced the money to pay the back taxes that resulted.

That judgment had been a little at the expense of the River-R acreage and a lot at the expense of Ezra Gale, a rancher whose cows always seemed to have three calves, two of which sure looked like River-R cattle. Gale did dirt to everyone, what with stealing cattle, driving away sheep, and shoving folks off what he claimed to be his land without paying even a quit-claim fee. After the court decision, Crewe had encouraged the Spanish squatters he bought off his own grant to resettle around Los Pinos in land that had been recovered from Ezra Gale's spread. Soon the settlement had grown too big to ever be burnt out by Gale's ranch hands.

That was during the years when Crewe was pretending he'd been sent out by the owners of the River-R to be trained as a range manager rather than confessing to being the new owner. He'd only gotten away with helping "Mexicans" because of his coaxing ways and because the other cattlemen had thought Crewe's revenge was a thigh-slapper. But Ezra Gale hadn't agreed. After a close call or two, Crewe stopped riding alone, and he had kept bringing along a "secretary" on his jobs even after Gale had drowned in the Red one night early in the spring of '93.

Eli had spent winters in Los Pinos with his mother's family, so he knew the cowboy rumors about Gale's drowning being celebrated in the placita with a fandango were nothing but slander. The day the news went around, everyone had just smiled a trifle more. True, Eli recollected plenty of low voiced conversations between two of his uncles and some of the other men around Los Pinos in the week before the accident, but that was a tale that didn't need telling.

What did need saying was, "It's my Great-Aunt Rosaria's turn to be our hostess."

"Ah. Good. She's an impressive cook."

Great-Aunt would be ready for company. Off by the rim rock to the north, Eli could see that one of the youngsters, likely out roaming around when he should have been working, had caught sight of them and was tearing back toward the placita. They'd get her best effort, too, since Eli was kin and Crewe's shenanigans had left the folks in Los Pinos treating him with wary respect instead of the usual deference thinly whitewashed over hostility.

When Uncle Estevan rode up, he didn't bother doffing his hat. He'd ridden the River-R in his day. "Don Crewe," he said instead, and grinned. "I see you are still keeping company with this little stick."

"Haw." Crewe changed tongues into his rickety Spanish. "Not so little now. We fatten him up like a yearling."

"I beg of you, do not let my mother hear that ranch cooks are triumphing where she could not."

"Her mistake was feeding him fine food. He thrives on old bacon and burned biscuits."

"I thrive upon Great-Aunt's cooking and no nonsense," Eli said.

"Ah?" Estevan hoisted his eyebrows. "I remember when you had to stand up twice to cast a shadow. Was that not a very few years ago? Two? Three?"

"Clearly, he was still then quite, hem, thin," Crewe agreed, his face very solemn. "In time, we did learn not to tie horses to him instead of the hitching posts. Bad food helped."

Falling back into his maternal kin's ways, Eli stretched his arms wide to emphasize his point, guiding his mount with his knees. "On the contrary. Even when I was weak with the Cuban fever after the war, I still refrained from eating, tormented by the lack of Great-Aunt's cooking. Thus, I was thin only until I returned to the ranch, where the scent of her posole, drifting across the plains, fattened me up."

Estevan laughed. "Enough that I am exhausted merely seeing you." He switched into English. "Good to see you, Mr. Crewe. A lot of the fellows around here are looking for a jaw." His English had been polished by Eli's Pa, and sometimes that showed.

"Problems with ranch hands?" Crewe asked, also in English, his tone not taking sides.

"No, but we hear plenty of talk about more changes in the land laws."

"As do I. I would be happy to speak with the gentles of Los Pinos." He glanced ahead to the plaza in front of the adobe chapel, where a cluster of men was gathering. "Word rides before us."

"Just like on the ranch," Eli said.

After they'd all swung down and handed the horses over to a couple of youngsters, Crewe strode forward to greet the worthies of the placita. Estevan put a hand on Eli's shoulder to hold him back. "You remind me. We have word from the River-R."

"As usual." Since the ranch employed Hispano cowboys, news galloped past the grant fences to Los Pinos.

"No, this is not usual. There are visitors waiting at the headquarters, ones said to have come from England." His head tilted. "Was not Don Crewe born there?"

"Yes." Eli pursed his lips. "You had better tell him this."

"You tell him. You are his man." Shaking his head, Estevan added, "As well, Josefita has a vocation. You must pretend to be surprised. And your friend Benigno has been visiting from the ranch he works upon in Colorado."

"I will be surprised. I will also have to visit Benigno this evening." All the more so since he and Eli had been more than just friends. This might be the chance for a good scratch around a bothersome itch. Looking over to where Crewe and the town worthies were still exchanging polite hellos, Eli said, "I expect no problems. If the meeting this evening lasts as long as these greetings, I could ride to visit the cousins in Las Vegas and return while you still talk."

"Idiot nephew," Estevan said, tone affectionate, "come and get something to eat instead."

The dinner was good and the visit with Benigno at his small adobe on the edge of the placita was even better. As Eli strolled toward his aunt's house in the moonlight, he'd relaxed enough to notice changes. There were pitched metal roofs on almost all the buildings now as well as glass windows in many, and several more houses had added long porches. Some of the trees were getting tall. The chapel was being worked on, slanted lines of adobe bricks drying in the yard, headed toward being a church. Given how lean times were back in Las Vegas, he was glad to see the signs of what passed for prosperity in these parts.

Eli found Crewe sitting out on Great-Aunt's porch, smoking his pipe. He had one of her fine wooden dining chairs beneath him, tilted back against the side of the house. In the shadows of the porch roof and the piñon pines, the faint glow as he drew on the stem of his briar was the brightest thing about him.

Feeling a touch too contented to just bed down, Eli took a hold of the chair back next to Crewe's. "May I?"

"Yes."

Sitting, Eli pulled out his own pipe, made of mesquite, and his tobacco pouch. A few minute's work was enough to get the tobacco packed, lit, and burning. Then they smoked in silence. After a time, Eli removed his pipe to say, "I was surprised to see you out here without company."

"I'd been left alone to speak with the majordomo."

"Well, now," Eli said. Los Pinos had been doing well, to select someone to be in charge of the irrigation ditches. "And who would that be?"

"Your cousin Antonio. Don Antonio now, I suppose. He wanted me to pass along word to my fellows that there would be ditch riders out in the future, patrolling. And they'll be digging wells."

"I don't think another acequia association has been put together in this county since the Apaches were run off and the ranchers came in. They'll blame you."

"Perhaps. They have other worries these days." Crewe paused to relight his pipe. "Besides, this will help with certain political alliances that I'm building. Mustn't pen all the bulls in one pasture."

"If you're planning on taking over the Territory, I'll make sure to clean my gun."

"Brass." There was no heat in the observation. "Since your friend Benigno is said not to be much of a talker, I suppose you're feeling cocky because of some detour for tomcatting after your visit."

Eli hoped his slow smile didn't show in the dark. Someone was feeling envious and without much call, given Las Vegas. "I do trust, sir, that you aren't implying anything about the virtue of the women of Los Pinos."

"I wouldn't dare. Especially not while within range of your Great-Aunt." He smoked a while longer before he asked, "Are you courting?" While he mostly didn't talk about anything too personal, Crewe's was a fair question. He'd need to find someone else if Eli got married like Tom Carpenter, his last secretary, had.

"No." Eli thought about the fearful eagerness that had filled Benigno's eyes when he'd opened his door to Eli's knock, his yearning and shame as he'd seen Eli out. Benigno was the one who would likely be courting soon. "No, nothing like that." His contentment was burning ground into the night, leaving behind only a heavy restlessness.

Maybe noticing that he had trespassed for the second time that day, Crewe changed the subject. "Did you note that your Great-Aunt collared me after dinner?"

"Yep."

"She congratulated me upon your growth."

Eli's teeth clenched on his pipe stem. Removing it, he said, "Has anyone noticed I'm twenty-six and not a hog? I sure am getting tired of this fascination everyone has with fattening me up."

"To be fair, until recently you were quite thin. Strong, but thin."

His snort would have to deputize for language Eli wouldn't use on his Great-Aunt's porch.

"I believe everyone was taken aback when you suddenly began to fill out. I certainly was." Abruptly, Crewe leaned forward and the front legs of his chair hit the planks of the porch. Then he started cleaning out the dottle from his pipe with a doodad from his pocket. Eli had to tear his gaze away from Crewe's hands.

After giving Crewe a minute or two to continue, Eli took his turn to change the subject. "Uncle Estevan told me there are visitors at the main headquarters."

"Over from Texas, I suppose," Crewe said. He didn't sound much concerned.

"From England."

Crewe paused in what he was doing. Then he finished, and put his pipe away. "That's a bit of a surprise," he said.

"He thought you'd want to hear, and not in front of every fellow in Los Pinos."

"He was right. Here's a complication." Everyone knew Crewe was a remittance man. Rumor said he'd gone and fallen in love with his brother's wife. In any case, he'd never shown signs of wanting news from home. Sure enough, his voice was flat when he continued, "Whatever their business is, it can wait upon the trip to Manhattan. I've delayed that as long as I can."

Making a calming gesture with his free hand, Eli said, "No sense counting cattle before they're branded. We'll be back on the River-R tomorrow."

There was a pause, and then a reluctant, "True." 

Eli expected Crewe to get up after that one word and go inside. Instead he leaned back in his chair again. Silence returned as Eli worked on his pipe, relighting it. Finally, Crewe said, voice hesitant, "If I've been intruding today, I apologize."

After he'd finished coughing, Eli said, "That's all right, sir. You always do jaw." No, that wasn't what he'd meant to say. "It's not that you talk lots. It's what you chew over, schoolmaster notions, the sort my Pa enjoyed. I enjoy a try or two at that sort of talking myself. I figured that's why you put me on your payroll as secretary. To have someone else around who'll shoot off his mouth like you do."

"The fact that you can spell properly and keep accounts, also thanks to your father, might have had something to do with my decision." The words were dry. "Yes, we talk. About philosophy or history, now and then. Mainly about the ranch, the land, horses, cattle, other such matters. Not--" Their tone having drifted toward troubled, his words trailed off.

When some time had passed, Eli said, "Isn't the first time you've mentioned how skinny I was, either."

"As if that helped, in the end." There was a pause during which Eli could just about swear he heard teeth clamping shut. "Never mind. Now I'm not making sense. Good night, Eli." With no more warning than that, he stood up and strode across the porch. Going in, he left Great-Aunt's chair outside. At least he didn't slam the door.

Eli craned to look after Crewe, and then shook his head. After another go at his pipe, all he'd managed to figure was if this was how the news of British company made Crewe behave, the visitors themselves should raise one choking beauty of a dust cloud.

Standing up, Eli knocked out his pipe dottle on the edge of the porch, picked up the two chairs, and went inside to try and get some sleep. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a long day.

***

Crewe and Eli set out around sunrise again, sent off with more food this time and many blessings. Better still, Estevan rode along so he could show them the present way of the river. The Red shifted beds like a Territory politician and was almost as treacherous, but the folks of Los Pinos learned its latest tricks quickly. When the three of them reached its western bank -- the spot had been a five-foot-high cliff of sand a few months ago -- Estevan got down off his own horse, dropped the reins, and waded ahead of them across the water, keeping to ridges and rocks to avoid both the dips and the quicksand. Eli and Crewe rode carefully in his wake.

When they were across, Crewe said, "Thank you," and bowed in the saddle. As for Eli, he got down for an embrace and one last blessing before he swung back up onto his mount, who promptly sidled left. They paused long enough to watch Estevan cross back over the river safely, and then rode on.

Hours later, the pines had fallen away behind them. They rode the grassy plains between the mesas now, crossing land fenced off into pastures that were miles wide in all directions. Eli eyed the thin vegetation they passed with an experienced eye. The gol-durned snakegrass was finally in retreat, vanishing as mysteriously as it had come. Otherwise, this year's grazing looked good; the River-R way of refusing to stock the range full to its limit and letting the herds eat off every good crop of grass kept the soil healthy, to Eli's way of thinking.

Off in the distance, between the junipers at the foot of a mesa, he could just see cattle. Farther out still, there'd be someone riding fence from one of the line camps, splicing wire and watching for trouble, but that hand could be miles away. Right now, there was nothing nearby but dark blue sky, red soil, sparse grass, and Crewe.

They'd run the horses a little on the flats -- or let them run the way they wanted, more like -- and now were walking them as they picked their way across a rocky patch by a shallow arroyo. Crewe was squinting off toward the near-by mesa, his back straight, and his hands low and easy on the reins. He was sweating some in the dry heat as the day warmed, and dusty from the prairie wind's work, but he still seemed comfortable. He had a good seat, strong thighs that would likely feel firm and well-callused in a fellow's grip-- Eli cut off his thoughts, annoyed with himself for that sort of daydreaming so soon after finding relief for his carnal urges.

Today there was no talk between them, not even the usual word or two every now and then about how the fall round-up might go or how the horses they rode were acting. When they stopped to stretch, to water the horses and check them for sores or stones, they still didn't speak. Instead, as the sun rose and then sank, and the shadows of the towering redrock shifted from one side of the mesas to the other, they both sat in their saddles thinking their own thoughts. As was often the case when on a long ride with no herd or remuda to mind, Eli felt his musings slow and widen.

He wondered about Crewe's visitors, and the revelations that might be waiting back at the headquarters. He pondered his own secrets, and how much longer he could stay in this country. Sooner or later, one of the men he'd approach would let something slip, start a rumor, try a boast to other hands meant to turn fear into strutting. After that, Eli would need to be gone. He could head east again, what with having practiced clerking as Crewe's secretary. But he'd hate to give up this open land, the sun and the sounds of his mother's tongue, for some tall office building. He'd hate to give up the quiet where he could calm his spirit. Maybe California?

Crewe didn't seem real fond of his thoughts, either. As they rode, his features shifted from grave to grim and back again. Even the rare smiles directed at nothing Eli could see seemed sour. When they came over the last, slight ridge and looked down at the main ranch buildings with their whitewashed adobe tinted pink by the low sun, he reined his horse to a halt and sat gazing for a minute. Then he said, "Well, whatever it is, it won't fix itself."

"Your call. You're the owner, sir," Eli said, just in case he needed the reminder.

"I suppose I am at that. Let's see what waits."

At the corral, they handed off their horses to the River-R wrangler with a few pithy comments from Crewe and a mention of that veer to the left from Eli. Then, after knocking off some dust, Crewe led the way to the manager's office.

Bill Stanley's office was at the end of the main building, a long structure constructed in the Spanish style with all the doors in the block opening out onto the porch. His door stood wide, ready to catch the evening breeze. Crewe stopped on the porch and knocked on the open door. "Bill."

There was the sound of chair legs scraping across wood floorboards, and Bill appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Crewe. Nice to see you back safe." His gaze shifted. "Howdy, Eli." Then he told Crewe, "You have visitors." His tone as he spoke that last sentence was flat.

"Yes, so I've heard. From England. Where are they?"

"Riding out. They've been here three days now, waiting, all four of 'em. The youngster is getting impatient."

Crewe shrugged. "A cattle ranch in New Mexico is not a seaside hotel in Biarritz."

"Yes, sir. The lady is with my wife over by the conservatory, in search of diversion."

"Ah," Crewe said. "The lady."

"I put her and her maid in your house." Crew had a little structure of three rooms to himself off by some poplars.

"Of course. Thank you, Bill. I'll go and speak with her now."

Eli paused a moment to raise his eyebrows at Bill, who shook his head and rolled his eyes toward heaven. Eli knew that look. Seemed like at least one, and maybe more, of the visitors was too big for his britches. After a fast, feeling smile of sympathy, he hurried to catch up with Crewe.

When they came around to the north side of the manager's house, Mrs. Stanley was showing a lady around the small conservatory the hands had built for her years back, the one where she grew some flowers that didn't like the out-of-doors. As Crewe rounded the corner, she must have caught sight of him; making her excuses, she hurried out the conservatory door, likely heading toward her Mister to report.

Crewe had waited just outside for the ladies to be done, so Eli had a good chance to look over Crewe's visitor through the glass. She was tall, thin, and maybe a few years above Eli's age. Even he could tell she had some beauty and more style. What he couldn't tell was much about her outfit other than it being a grayish-brown color, made of fine cotton with lace at the neck, and pricey. Beneath a hat that could've started a stampede on a windy day, her skin was pale. She might have had freckles if she'd gotten some sun since what you could see of the hair was a red roan. Unlike Crewe, her eyes were green. But she did hold herself the way he did, with her spine stiffened by enough thoroughbred blood that she seemed as like to cut you up as say hello.

"Louisa," Crewe said. "I hope you'll excuse me, coming to you in all my dirt." He'd dulled the customary English edge to his talk and his expression was shut tight.

"Never mind," she said, and offered him her hand. She was wearing gloves. "I'm still glad you're here."

Crewe took her hand briefly and let go. "To what do I owe this visit?"

Although her eyes had never shifted in his direction, Eli got a sense that the lady knew he was lingering outside the door to the conservatory, listening. She said to Crewe, "John wishes to see you."

A snort, and Crewe said, "With all due respect, John can go to hell."

"Well." Her head tilted like a wild mare's that had spotted an opening. "I suppose he'll have the chance soon. He's dying, Harry."

***

Eli didn't get to hear the rest of their conversation, much as he wanted to. From the direction of the corral, he spotted another of the visitors heading toward the conservatory. This fellow was young and dressed in a dude's white suit topped off by a Stetson that hadn't stood much weather. Quickly, Eli moved to cut him off. "Sorry, sir. Mr. Crewe is having a private talk. Would you care to wait?"

The look he got in return was an odd one, if cheerful. Eli guessed he might have worn the same expression himself if a dog got up on its hind legs and told him how to ride. A big, amused smile spread across the kid's features as he offered a hand and said, "You must be Skinny Fletcher. I've heard quite a lot about you."

Some hand or other was going to get whomped for flapping his jaw. "Yes, I'm Eli Fletcher." Eli offered his own hand. "How do you do." His arm got worked like a pump handle.

"Very well. I'm, ah, William Crewe." For some reason, his own name seemed to entertain the fellow.

"Mr. John Crewe's son?"

"No, no, his cousin. Your Mr. Crewe is also my cousin."

Well, Eli could sure see a resemblance. Young William was a darker version of Crewe, maybe a touch better-looking, not as used to working, and a lot less worn. Eli would also wager his name was phony, which explained why he was so amused by the introduction if not what was so funny about Eli. "Your aunt's in there talking with Mr. Crewe."

"Oh, I see." To give him credit, the amusement died down. "Yes, we wouldn't want to interrupt that conversation." He considered; you could just about see the gears meshing in his brain. Then he brightened. "You might be able to assist me. I've been hoping to get in some shooting while we are here, but no one seems to be able to offer me anything better than a few antelope and some coyotes. Is there some difficulty in procuring all the bear and buffalo that I've read so much about?"

"Shot out around here, I'm afraid. In fact the buffalo's pretty much gone. Our antelope are good hunting, though."

"What a shame. I'll have to see about the antelope. Or perhaps the local Red Indians would know where to find better game. In any case, I'll want a cowboy or two to serve as my guides."

"Mr. Stanley's the ranch manager."

Young John looked like he was chatting with the talking dog again. His nice smile didn't even rise to the level of dismissive. "Yes, yes. I'll speak with Cousin Harry. He's said to be quite the huntsman."

Eli was relieved to spot Crewe coming out of the conservatory, even if Crewe's head was down as if he were walking into a stiff wind. "If you'll excuse me?" Without waiting for an answer, he went over to Crewe. "Your cousin's waiting," Eli said, keeping his voice down.

Crewe's head came up and he looked past Eli. "I see."

"He wants to get in some hunting."

"Mmph. As I would have, at his age. I suppose he also grew up favoring my father's side of the family." A dry smile came and went. "Louisa says he's more useful -- and more formidable -- than he sounds out here."

"Well, how about that."

Eli was pleased to see a warmer smile reward his sarcasm. "I'll speak with him. Go and let Bill know about the association meeting." Eli started to turn away and Crewe said, "Wait."

Turning back, Eli hoisted his brows.

"They've brought some kind of protector with them from Manhattan." Crewe snorted. "Try not to break him, please."

Later, after they'd chewed over the Stockgrower's meeting at the manager's house, Bill explained about the bodyguard. "A durned Pinkerton." Mrs. Stanley clucked from where she sat in a corner of the parlor knitting, and Bill said, "I stand by my language. The feller keeps slinking around trying to seem tough and bothering the hands. He's a worse pest than the young'un, and that's saying something."

"Mrs. Crewe is nice enough," his wife said.

"You're just happy she didn't move us out of this house," Bill retorted. But he was smiling.

"That has nothing to do with anything." His wife pulled out another ball of yarn from her basket. "Mind you, I'm not claiming she's angling for an invitation from the Eastern Star Ladies of Las Vegas." Her smile was prim but her eyes, as usual, were keen. Eli waited with interest to see where she was heading.

Bill was interested, too. "Come on now, Ma. I'm thinking there's a bee in your bonnet."

"She wanted to know about Mr. Crewe: what he's been doing these past years, how Territory folks talk about him, that sort of chatter." Pursing her lips over her latest row of stitches, she parted them to add, "I'm not sure what she wants, but she thinks she's bending low to get it."

"The whole lot of 'em are in cahoots," Bill agreed. "I don't think they'd be bothering to visit a cattle ranch, otherwise."

Eli shut his lips over the news that Mrs. Crewe wanted the Emperor to go see his dying brother. He settled for saying, "That sounds like something Mr. Crewe was nudging at." After a moment's thought, he added, "I think they'll leave when we head for New York City."

"Good," Bill said.

"Manners," his wife chided. She didn't disagree with him, though.

It wasn't until after dinner that evening that Eli got to meet the last of the visitors (if you didn't count Mrs. Crewe's maid, which no one seemed to do). Eli was walking out a bit from the headquarters buildings to have a smoke away from the women, when a voice spoke from over by some poplar trees. "You must be Elias Fletcher."

Eli was getting pretty tired of being told who he must be. "Tarnation. I was thinking of being Colonel Roosevelt."

"What? Oh, a gagster. No, I've been hearing all about you. You're the Mexican cowboy, the Rough-Rider who works as Mr. Crewe's bodyguard."

"Spanish. Half-Spanish. And I'm his private secretary."

The fellow stepped forward. He was smiling but his eyes were shadowed in the dim light. "Okay, half-Spanish," he said, sounding friendly.

Eli wasn't fooled. The way he carried himself, his build as he moved in close and his battered features told Eli everything he needed to know about this man. This wouldn't be a matter of Eli not breaking the visitor. This would be Eli trying not to be broken or have to shoot.

The fellow said, "I'm Andy Kelly, and I don't mind admitting that I'm a bodyguard. I was hired to escort the Crewe party on this trip."

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a Territory man."

Kelly laughed. "No. I'm not one to be crossing the Hudson unless I must. But a gun's still a gun out west, and I have learned how to buy a man a drink in any town."

"Well, that is good to know."

"It is, it is." Kelly paused to light a cigarette: fine tobacco and already rolled, both rare in New Mexico. "I pride myself on being a good man to know. And on knowing what's good for me." He blew some smoke. "Which is a rarer trait than it should be, I've found."

Eli made sure his own tone stayed friendly. "Mr. Kelly, I'm not much of a fellow for hints. Do you have something to tell me?"

"Oh, not yet, no. I'm working, after all, and I never peach on a client." He considered the lit tip of his cigarette before taking another puff. "Although you'd be amazed by the bits of talk that come my way while I'm working, indeed you would. Maybe that's why I'm always having ladies and gents lining up for my services before my jobs are done, in case there's something they want discovered later."

"Or not discovered."

"I'd heard you were clever," Kelly said, tone admiring. "What's the saying? 'A stitch in time saves nine,' is it?" He took another puff. "A clever man knows the value of a good tale."

"High. Too high for my thin wallet. They don't call me Skinny for nothing."

"I had wondered. You seem solid enough to me." He laughed: a rich chuckle. Eli felt no urge to join in. "Well, if you ever do want a bit of talk, I'm always willing to consider a trade. A story's worth a story, as a rule. Or a silence." He threw his cigarette away into the darkness, and Eli tracked its path to make sure it didn't start anything smoldering. "I'd best be off. Wouldn't want Mr. Crewe the Younger to be attacked by a Red Indian." With another chuckle, he strolled away.

Eli stayed behind, listening with the care he used at night during cattle drives to make sure that Kelly was truly headed back to the main building. Then, "Son of a bitch," he said. When that wasn't enough, he added, "Hijo de la puta grande."

"I've never understood why one's mother should have to bear the blame," a familiar voice said from the deep shadows behind the poplars.

"Mr. Crewe." Startled, Eli let his mouth run loose. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Quite a lot. A more interesting question is how much I was meant to hear." Without waiting for Eli to chew that notion over, Crewe continued, "An ingenious and subtle form of blackmail."

"I thought that's what he was hinting at."

"I'd say so, yes."

"You sure you don't want him broken?"

"No. Walk with me a while." They headed over to the corral, a good place for a jaw with eavesdroppers wandering around. Moonlight would help them see if anyone else was lurking and the horses would stir, too.

They both leaned against the fence. Crewe lit his pipe before he said, "You know I'm what's called a remittance man."

"Everyone knows that." Eli wondered where Crewe was heading. "Supposed to have gone chasing after your brother's wife, back home. Story is, you caught her. But Mrs. Crewe is too young. Too young to have been married back in the 'eighties, that is. Was your brother married twice?"

"No. He married late and, I believe, with some reluctance. Unearned reluctance: Louisa is an interesting woman." Crewe studied the horses for a moment and then continued, "Although I shouldn't judge him since I'll never marry, lacking the necessary temperament."

Eli knew all about reluctance. But it seemed he hadn't known everything he thought he did about the Emperor-- He felt his stomach lurch and then the air whoosh out of his gut as if he'd been pitched off a fresh horse and hit the ground hard. Taking a deep breath, he let it out. Well, now. Taking another, easier breath, Eli turned away from the corral to prop his elbows on a rail. Seems this was what he got for taking his elders' gossip as gospel back when he'd been young and green. "You worried Kelly will dig up the real reason for your leaving?"

Crewe snorted. "Hardly. That's buried deeper than the oil they're now digging up in Texas."

Thinking about the talking he'd been doing with Crewe these past few days -- the past few months, even -- Eli had to grin. Fellows who wanted to keep what they'd buried hidden from you didn't hand you a post-hole digger. Tilting his head back to examine the stars, he asked, "So you're no broken-hearted womanizer?"

"No." There was a pause while Crewe worked on his pipe. "I admit my reputation as a lothario is a complete and utter sham." Another pause, and he said, "When we brought back that bullion from Manhattan, I thought it was fair to show you what you'd be guarding."

"I appreciated your trust, sir."

"This seems to be the same sort of situation. So once more I find myself trusting you with a secret, if for a different reason. When I left England, I hadn't done what they said I did, but I am what they thought I was."

His posture looked easy, but Eli sensed Crewe was tense. He didn't leave Crewe hanging, waiting to see if Eli knew what all these words had meant. "Not the marrying sort, you mean."

"Haw. No."

"Me, neither. Although I guess you finally figured that one out."

Now it was Crewe's turn to blow out some air before he said, "No, I merely suspected. I've wondered for a while, but chalked up my notions to the wishful thinking of a man denied confidants. However, your evening visit in Los Pinos was suggestive. There's an air afterwards."

"Sure." Eli turned his head to study Crewe. "If I'll be guarding your secret, I guess that means you're going to talk to your brother."

"Oh, yes." Even in the dark, Eli could see Crewe's shoulders square up a touch, the way they did when he'd already come to a decision. "However he, unlike the inquisitive Kelly, knows just why I left England. Given I'm not sure what he wants from me, or if that something is also what Louisa and William want, I believe we're going to need to take a few precautions before this trip."

"That'll be costly if we're heading back East."

"No, not back east. John is in my territory now. He's taking the waters over at Ojo Caliente and wants me to meet him there." His eyes were speculative in the light of the match as he relit his pipe. After he had it going again, he said, "I have to wonder why."

 

III

The next three days made Eli feel like he'd joined some odd round-up where Crewe's cousin William played the role of the dumb and determined steer and Mrs. Crewe was the canny cow who'd wander off the second you weren't watching. He didn't know what that would make Kelly: a rattlesnake, maybe.

"Really," William complained, "must we leave tomorrow? If we've lingered this long, I don't see why we can't stay long enough for Cousin Harry to take me out for more shooting." He started to shift his chair and then stopped. They'd eaten dinner at a table moved into the front room of Crewe's house for the visitors. Between that and the sideboard, the fit was tight, and not eased any by Mrs. Crewe insisting Eli dine with them to even out the numbers.

"My schedule is constrained by ranch business, I'm afraid," Crewe said calmly. "I'd set aside a week to work with Mr. Stanley before my trip to New York to meet with my bankers. Three days was the least amount of time I could spend, but waiting more than a week would be lingering too long."

Mrs. Crewe looked up from pouring the tea that her maid had brewed earlier while the menfolk retired out onto the porch to smoke and drink. "If timing is a problem, I'm sure you could use the coach." The Crewes had borrowed a private railway car from some eastern millionaire for their visit to New Mexico, as near as Eli could make out.

"No, thank you. A Pullman berth is enough indulgence."

"Then you must follow your schedule and so, perforce, must we." She handed a cup on a saucer to Eli, who received them with care. Usually they only broke out china on the River-R when Crewe or the Stanleys were hosting ranchers who'd brought along wives. Even when Crewe drank his tea, he used a mug. Ignoring Eli's nervous manners, Mrs. Crewe continued, "I'm grateful you have time to see John before you go."

"As am I." Crewe managed to make that sound polite. "Will you be staying in Territory after I leave?"

"For a few weeks longer. Seemingly, the waters at your sanatorium need some time to work their magic: twenty-one days is the usual, I'm informed." Her lips crooked very slightly before she sipped. Wry or pained: it was hard to tell.

"Then you may still have time for a trip to southern Colorado," Crewe told William. "The high peaks are home to a great deal of interesting game."

William nodded, interest flaring in his eyes. But what he said was, "Cousin John may need me." After that bit of caution, the conversation flowed back into its usual channel of vague stories about ranching from Eli and Crewe and vaguer stories about England from William and Mrs. Crewe. An eavesdropper would think there were no social links at all between the two pairs of diners, let alone kinship. This kind of visiting was hard for Eli to endure for long. He was relieved when the conversation was done.

After they left Crewe's house, Eli strolled over to talk with a couple of hands who were lingering around the manager's house in a way they likely thought was casual. Then he rejoined Crewe on the porch outside the main building. Keeping his voice quiet, he said, "Kelly's still sitting up with the Stanleys."

"Swapping stories in search of information, I'd imagine. William should be joining them soon." For the sake of decorum, the youngest Crewe was also boarding with the Stanleys. "Any other news?"

"Yep. I didn't get a chance to tell you before dinner. J. B. fetched back replies to your telegrams, and Felipe rode in with news from Los Pinos. We're ready." Eli shook his head. "As ready as can be, that is. I swear, I don't know why Mrs. Crewe insists I sit in on these dinners. None of you speaks straight when I'm around."

"That's likely to be her motive. Come inside," Crewe said, and opened the door to his temporary lodgings, a small room used for visiting horse doctors, cattle inspectors, and the like, that was wedged between Stanley's office and a storeroom full of wagon equipment.

They both went into the dim room, lit only by such moonlight as could get past the roof over the porch and through the thin curtains. Crewe didn't move to light a lamp; likely he didn't want any silhouettes on show for a watcher. Eli didn't mind. He knew the lay-out of this room well enough not to trip over anything before his eyes grew used to the dark. He leaned against the doorjamb as Crewe pulled a chair away from the wall and sat. Then Crewe said, "I think Louisa doesn't want to press her case yet, whatever it is, for fear I'll refuse her. She'd rather take the chance our dinners offer to assess me."

"And, in the meantime, Kelly harvests gossip for her?"

"Possibly for her, possibly for William. I'd wager both."

"Not taking that bet." Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea, coming in here. In these close quarters, Crewe's rumbling voice made Eli far too aware of both the dark and his company. There was a bed right at hand, a smaller version of the bed in Eli's room. All put together, this was too much temptation, especially now. These last few days, since he'd learned what Crewe was, he'd been struggling not to spend time wondering what Crewe wanted. Who Crewe wanted.

"I'm beginning to have a suspicion about what John is after, but I may be riding ahead of my facts." What should have been a short silence stretched. Crewe broke it at last with, "I'd best light a lamp." Eli wondered if he was imagining the hoarse tone of Crewe's words, a roughness as pleasing as coarse leather scrubbed across itching skin.

"I guess you'd better." Eli's eyes had adjusted. He could see Crewe reach for the matches before the small flare of the strike.

Crewe said, "This is ridiculous. My talk with you was supposed to make our relations easier, not harder."

"So to speak," Eli couldn't resist adding.

Crewe's look was exasperated. "Don't even--" Abruptly recalled to what he was doing, he quickly shook out the match that had burned down to his fingertips. "Hell."

"Burn yourself?"

"Nothing worth mentioning." From the faint sound and dim sight that followed, he was licking his fingertips before blowing on them, a youngster's trick.

Maybe Eli was spurred by temper or maybe he was moved by mischief. He didn't know. For whatever reason, he stepped forward and caught hold of the hand, pulled it away from Crewe's lips. "You should be more careful." Crewe's hand was hard but slack with what must be surprise. Eli tasted the burnt fingertips himself: skin, salt, maybe a hint of sulfur. Strong muscles shifted beneath the warm, callused skin as Crewe tensed.

"Ah." Crewe's sound was more of an exhalation than a word. Then he yanked his hand away and stood up so quickly that he knocked over his chair. Eli caught the back before the chair fell far, but Crewe's hand collided with his. They both went still.

Eli was the first to move. As he shoved the chair upright against the wall, he heard himself ask, as if from far away, "You ever wonder about me late at night?" You'd think he was talking to a nervous mustang with that low, coaxing note in his voice.

"What an absolutely idiotic question." Without warning, Crewe's free hand was at Eli's throat, grasping his collar and shirt. "Why else do you think I needed to make my desperate confession?" Crewe had drawn close enough that Eli could feel him, sense the heat of his body, smell the familiar scent of tobacco and dusty fabric. There still wasn't much light in this room. Eli guessed they didn't need much light just now.

Without the chair, Eli had hands free to run across that fine, familiar fabric down Crew's back to his hips. Muscles went taut beneath his touch the entire trip. "You hid it pretty well," Eli said, his voice calmer than he felt. "Only times I caught you watching, I thought you were measuring how skinny I was. Or wasn't."

"As if the thinness helped. As if it helped even back then. I should have known better than to shift you from being a foreman to my secretary, no matter how much I enjoyed your higher qualities." Those hard and callused hands were on Eli's shoulders now, and gripping, not pushing away, even though Eli was working on Crewe's belt buckle.

The buckle wasn't tough and the fly buttons were easy. Even the combinations weren't much of a hindrance, considering the bulk that was straining at their fabric. Crewe had gone hard, and Eli wanted this hardness in hand. He freed Crewe's cock, waited for a moment before he took a grip, and then got to work. From the silence, the way Crewe's arms tensed and loosened across Eli's back while he stroked, Crewe wasn't going to argue.

The side of Crewe's face was pressed against Eli's own, and his lips shifted faintly against Eli's cheek in something really close to a kiss. Most times, most men, Eli would have turned his own face away. Now he tilted his cheek against Crewe's mouth and turned his head to catch the lips. The taste of their kiss, of whisky, tea, and tobacco, wasn't a surprise. The clench of pleasure in his belly was, and likely not just to him. Crewe let out a low grunt.

Eli pulled his lips away. "Quiet, now," he said, only half teasing.

"Quiet?" For once, the snort was soft. "Wait... until I get my mouth around you. You can try... quiet." Eli tightened his grip at that notion, and Crewe stifled another noise. Then, "Handkerchief," he managed to get out.

It was something of a miracle that Eli had the brains left to fumble out his handkerchief and get it over Crewe's cock before Crewe spent, his hips jerking and his words muffled against Eli's shoulder. Rather than turn him loose afterward, Eli cradled him in both hands while he softened, while he caught his breath, while Eli's cock ached with its own wanting.

Crewe's first comment was, "I meant for you to use my handkerchief," followed by an altogether huskier, "Sit on the bed. I'm not chancing my trousers on these planks." Eli smiled.

Crewe paused long enough to put himself away and take off his coat, his movements obvious even in the dark. Eli spent some distracted seconds wondering what to do about his boots; thinking was hard with all the blood gone from his brain. He had to settle for scooting back along the bed and resting them on the Indian blanket folded across the foot of the bedclothes.

When Crewe sat on the edge of the bedstead next to him, it creaked but held. Eli opened his mouth to say something just as Crewe swooped in like a red-tailed hawk. His hard hands were both torment and relief to Eli's aching cock. By the time Crewe had Eli out and in his mouth, brains no longer seemed called for.

The lips moving around him, the tight grip on his hips, the tongue running along his length: Eli knew all these pleasures well from lots of past encounters. But this wasn't any old lick and suck. Somehow, the slick embrace of Crewe's mouth was better than the memories. Even when the pull wasn't quite hard enough, or a touch more speed might have built the fire higher, the shadowy sight of Crewe taking him deep was hotter than a branding iron, hotter than--

Eli gritted his teeth and grabbed the bedstead with both hands. Without his permission, his hips bucked fit to choke Crewe. But Crewe held on, mouth still wet, hot, and welcoming. He kept his hold, swallowing, as Eli spent and then gentled him afterward for a long, sweet time before Crewe eased off and shifted away to sit back up on the edge of the bed.

"That was foolish," he said, even as he ran a slow hand along Eli's side.

Eli moved to grab the hand in his own. He ran his thumb along its calluses for a moment, trying to find words, before he gave Crewe's hand a hard squeeze and let go. "Good, though," he finally said softly. "Real good."

"My Lord, yes." Getting up, Crewe moved over to the curtain and shifted it a touch to look out. Then he let it fall loose and came back to the bed. By then, Eli had recovered enough to sit up himself. Crewe said, still quiet, "I can't imagine that -- you -- as being somehow less than good. Merely unwise."

"Neither of us was being real smart," Eli agreed. He got up and saw to neatening up and rearranging his clothing. Goodbye, good handkerchief.

"Perhaps that's what we wanted: an excuse to be fools."

"Well, we had reason. No offense, but your relatives are chewing on my temper. I'd imagine they're straining yours some, too."

"No offense taken." Crewe was lighting a lamp as he spoke, and this time he wasn't fooling around. Eli could see to sit down on the chair as Crewe said, "And, yes, they are."

"Then, if you don't mind my asking, what is your family's real name? I'm sure getting tired of Cousin William smirking every time he says Crewe."

"Understandable. John's properly referred to as--" Crewe paused, smiled slightly, and continued, "I haven't said it properly for years," before laying out enough of a title to make Eli blink.

"Now, that's a bit higher than I figured on."

"No longer anything to do with me. Or, at least, not until four days ago. I resent the ruckus." He sat down on the bed and contemplated a boot before beginning to work it off. You'd think he was addressing the boot when he said, "As an encounter, this was unusual."

"I guess."

"I haven't had many chances to linger with, hmm, friends instead of acquaintances. Maybe that accounts for the differences."

"Could be."

Crewe's look was surprised. "You don't know? What about your friend Benigno?"

"Friendship doesn't matter. He's ashamed. A lot of the fellows I knew well beforehand seemed ashamed afterward." Trying to be fair, Eli shook his head and said, "Maybe that's because I'm generally the one in the saddle. Servicing another fellow seems to make some men feel weak."

"Indeed?" Crewe asked dryly. "How odd that I feel no sudden urge to pass the reins of ownership of the River-R into your manly hands." Eli grinned, and Crewe returned him a wintery smile. It died, though, before he added, seemingly as much to himself as Eli, "I'll admit, years passed in this harsh and open country before I stopped feeling disgraced."

Shaking his head in amazement, Eli said, "Never did show."

"Good. It was nonsense." Crewe looked back down and started work on his second boot. "We've talked too long."

"We yammer all the time."

"No, not that." Placing both boots together on the floor by the foot of his bed, Crewe said, "We've talked too long with Kelly lurking about."

"Sam and Hap are supposed to be keeping an eye on him. In fact, I'd imagine around now they're taking his tobacco while telling him more stories about me in trade, but that'll serve just as well to keep him busy."

"Well, then, we've talked too long for me not to slide into sentimentality. I find myself wanting to lure you into my bed for a good night's sleep. A warm night's sleep."

Eli couldn't blame him. There was no fireplace in this room, and the River-R nights could get chill. Also, sharing sheets with someone who knew him, with whom he'd kept good company-- "That does sound fine," he admitted.

"I rest my case."

Now, there was a hint. Eli got up. "I'll see you, then."

"Good night." Crewe looked up from undoing his cuffs. This smile was a real one. "I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, out in the early sunlight."

Not ashamed. Down deep, Eli's satiation seemed to curl up into something easy and warm like a barn cat finding a nest of hay. Getting up, he stretched before he nodded goodnight and left. The moon was bright outside and the night air on the porch brisk enough to be bracing. Eli felt ready to ride to Santa Fe.

He still kept a wary eye out on the way to his own room.

***

They started out the next morning in a small procession of one buggy and four horses, heading for the River-R station. Eli didn't think that Kelly ended up on the same steeldust Eli had ridden out from Las Vegas by chance. Free tobacco or no, the fellow hadn't made himself popular on the River-R. His muttered cussing as his mount kept veering left added pleasure to what was already shaping into a fine day. Too bad that William's mount seemed to be a good one, but that was likely because he was Crewe's kin. Even so, the sight of Kelly's struggles soothed the temper his company roused.

The wind was from the southeast as they rode, blowing the trail dust away behind them. The sky above was the dark, clear blue Eli had only ever seen in New Mexico. Some towering clouds, scudding along like old sailing ships, hinted that the summer rains might come soon. Riding next to him, Crewe sure seemed placid for a man going toward a meeting that he'd avoided for years. As the sun climbed the sky, he pushed back his weather-worn Stetson and smiled a real smile once more.

After that, Eli was careful not to watch him too close. He felt he knew why Crewe was in such a fine mood, and Eli didn't want to start looking like the gal who'd won the picnic-basket auction. How much good his efforts did, what with Crewe feeling jovial enough to slap J. B.'s shoulder before he sent him back to the River-R with the buggy and all the horses trailing behind, Eli didn't know. Maybe his relatives couldn't tell Crewe was about one step from joining the dancing at a fandango. Maybe the trip would distract Kelly.

Although riding the railroads was sure easier than riding horseback cross country, they still weren't much of a treat, especially the small gauge lines. Mrs. Crewe endured her trip south in the little coach car hitched on the end of a long coal train with tight-lipped concentration, ignoring both the coal smuts blowing back through the open windows and the whispering of passengers who'd spotted Crewe accompanying a lady. There went her reputation.

When they reached Tucumcari, she got down without a word and hurried off toward the siding where the private Pullman car waited, leaving her maid to arrange for the luggage to get moved. With an amused look at Eli, Crewe hoisted his own bag and followed her. He had to pause to exchange greetings with the station manager, who sure wasn't going to let both the Emperor and a party that could muster up a private car leave this station without making himself noticed. Eli picked up Crewe's bag from where he'd put it down to talk and took it along to the Pullman. As he left, a couple of local grandees who'd spotted Crewe also burned ground to join the cluster.

A porter took both bags from him over by the observation platform at the rear of the private car and gestured for Eli to precede him up the iron steps. Eli shook his head and said, "I'd better dust off before I go into that thing." There was a touch of sympathy in the porter's smile before he left Eli to try and make himself fit for fancy surroundings.

By the time he felt ready, Crewe had caught up with him. "If you're worried about your clothes, you can always ask one of the porters to brush you off," Crewe said.

His lips quirked at Eli's speaking look. Then he headed for the stairs, maybe worried about what his own eyes were saying in reply. Eli followed him up onto the observation platform and into the private car, torn between wanting to whistle cheerfully and wanting to shake his head at the moonshine of it all.

Neither Mrs. Crewe nor William were in sight; they'd likely retired to the car's two staterooms. Just as well. Eli would have hated to be caught staring at the Turkey carpet, the armchairs, and the settee, nicer and likely pricier than anything on the River-R. Crewe gave him another amused look before asking, "Not worthy of a Rough-Rider?" That was his version of soothing a balking horse, and it worked.

Eli took off his Stetson, sat down, and asked, "Does Mrs. Crewe know we're transferring to another narrow-gauge car on the Chili line?"

"You'll notice she's taking advantage of her stateroom while she can," Crewe said. "Did you bring your notebook?"

"My brain hasn't gone all that soft, sir," Eli retorted.

Crewe tried to seem stern, but his lips were twitching. "Well then, let's review Bill's figures on winter feed."

They kept to business. Even over dinner, Crewe talked mostly about the trip to New York City with Eli, while Mrs. Crewe and William jawed about something in low voices at the other dining table. An outsider might not have known anything was amiss; the only time Eli came close to giving himself away was when Crewe said coolly, "I think we'll linger a fortnight or so in Manhattan, to take care of some extra business. The main fence will still be waiting when we return."

Eli glanced up briefly from his plate to see Crewe cutting his steak with close attention. Choking back the urge to ask questions, Eli returned to his own chuck.

The route was a fancy one, with their car needing to switch trains a couple of times to end up at Santa Fe. The trip was fast only because of Crewe's influence; some of the passengers on the northbound to Santa Fe may have wondered about the delay while the Pullman was transferred. As for Eli, he wondered if Crewe's kin understood the decades of coaxing, commanding, fiscal maneuvering, and favors exchanged all up and down the Territory that built up enough power to make this trip so fast. Likely not.

Mrs. Crewe was sweet as pie when they finally switched in Santa Fe as the afternoon shadows were lengthening. She still somehow gave the sense of walking ten feet in the air above all the other folks hurrying toward the Denver and Rio Grande cars. Between her high head, Crewe's presence, and the comments from William that'd make you think he was attending a Nickelodeon, they had some empty spaces on the seats around them during the trip up to Barranca Station.

When they'd climbed down from the passenger car, William looked around and shook his head. "Good God. It's the end of the world." Eli kept his face straight. If he ignored the station buildings, all he saw was a mesa top covered by bunch grass and piñon pines, surrounded by grazing lands stretching out toward the mountains in the distance, none of it odd for New Mexico. They had just chugged up through some steep and scary cuts on their way out of the Rio Grande gorge; maybe that was what was impressing William. Or maybe it was the stagecoach waiting for them, hinting at the ride still ahead. The horses stirred in their traces as the small train whistled and then chugged off to the north.

William stopped peering around like he was trying to spy buffalo and took Mrs. Crewe's arm to escort her to the stage. With an amused look on his face, Kelly followed them. An attendant from the sanatorium came over to help the maid with the bags. Eli had worked with Crewe to organize this little trip, so he wasn't surprised to see that the so-called attendant was actually Uncle Estevan.

Eli clambered up on top of the stage to give the ladies more room in the stagecoach; neither William nor Kelly joined him, of course. He didn't pine for their company. Better to see what the driver was doing. Once outside the towns, New Mexico roads were more of a notion than a fact. Stage trips were tricky at the best of times, let alone in the lowering light of the sun now setting ahead of them.

This trip, though, went without trouble. The stage was well sprung, designed as it was to convey invalids. Up top, nobody talked. Their driver was busy and Estevan kept his thoughts to himself, although his face was so solemn that Eli knew he was destined to be teased at every family gathering from now until the day he died. Eli was dusty again by the time they'd swung north into the canyon and reached Ojo Caliente, not to mention rattled around, but no worse than if he'd spent a day working on the River-R.

They kept going through the small settlement of Ojo Caliente to the hotel and then past it, to stop outside a roofed adobe house. Eli looked at Estevan in inquiry. He said, in gravely formal Spanish, "Don Joseph has provided this house for Mr. Crewe from England during his stay." Antonio Joseph was the owner of this place, elderly now. But Joseph was also a former territorial congressman and member of the Santa Fe Gang, land speculators who'd been holding back statehood for decades. Since the Emperor was a power who dealt with everyone in the Territory, any relative of his was getting thoroughbred treatment from Joseph without needing to mention a fancy title.

"All right, then," Eli said, and went to clamber down.

He didn't see Crewe's brother coming to meet them. He did see a young man that he recognized as Mr. Joseph's eldest son, likely waiting to convey his father's greetings to Crewe. There was also a fellow fancily dressed for these parts lurking in the background, who Eli pegged as a servant of "Mr. Crewe from England." The fellow firmed up this notion by brightening once he saw Mrs. Crewe, and stepping forward to speak with her.

Kelly was eyeing the surroundings dubiously. "And this is a world-famous sanitarium?"

"Hot water and good health," Eli told him.

"There is a room for you at the hotel, sir," Estevan said with an accent phony as a three dollar bill. Estevan picked up his bag, but Kelly still had to walk away from the interesting meetings, which was entertaining. While Crewe endured his welcome from the younger Joseph, Mrs. Crewe had already hurried inside. William had wandered off toward the bathhouse over the hot springs, maybe hoping to see some women bathing. Eli wondered if bathing women were also on his list of interesting game.

Just as Eli was getting ready to ask the driver, still taking down the Crewes' baggage, where he and Crewe were staying, Mrs. Crewe came back out of the house. "John is somewhat restored," she told Crewe. She seemed surprised and, to give her credit, really pleased. "He still tires easily. Given that, he proffers his apologies and asks if you can lunch with him tomorrow."

"Of course," Crewe said. "I am rather tuckered just now."

"I'll be joining him for dinner."

"I'm sure Eli and I can fend for ourselves in the hotel dining room," Crewe said.

"If you're sure." Her tone hinted that he'd better be, even though she smiled when she gave him her hand before she hurried off again.

Eli looked at Crewe. Crewe said, "Louisa always was strong willed, even when I knew her as a girl." He looked a touch reminiscent when he added, "She kicked without warning."

"Still can, I'd say."

"I'd wager you're right. Mr. Joseph has reserved us rooms in the hotel." The corners of his lips twitched. "We'd best go change into evening clothes before the dining room closes."

Eli shook his head and reached for the handle of his bag. At least Crewe carried his own suitcase.

 

IV

William entered the dining room and stopped dead when he saw them at their table, which was amusing in its way. Then he crossed the mostly empty room to say, "Cousin Harry. I had no idea that you ever dressed for dinner."

"We don't bother on the River-R," Crewe said placidly. "Join us?"

"No, I've ordered food brought up to my room." Eli wondered if this hotel offered room service. Well, if they hadn't before, they did now. "I merely wanted to stop and say that I'm off for a few days, starting tomorrow. John has sent word that he doesn't need me just yet, and I thought I'd take your advice about the mountains in Colorado." His smile couldn't cover the strange look lurking in his eyes. Eli wondered what was driving him. "I do hope I'll have a chance to see you again before I leave."

"I hope so, too," Crewe said before getting up to shake William's outstretched hand. He was lying, but only someone who'd been with him for a good, long time could have told.

Eli had to shake hands, too, before they could get back to working on their oxtail soup.

"Mmph," Crewe said. "Something off there."

"Yep," Eli agreed. They exchanged looks, but said nothing more that might be overheard in a public dining room, no matter how close to empty it might be.

After drinks at the bar and smokes on the porch, they retired upstairs. Crewe was stowed in a big corner room and Eli had the smaller room across the corridor. No one much was about; invalids tended to bed down early.

Crewe paused at his door, looked down at the knob, and then said to Eli, "Come in. I believe I've discovered what John wishes to speak with me about tomorrow."

Dutifully, Eli followed him into the room. Crewe was saying as he entered, "I should have known a scandal was at hand." As Eli closed the door, he lowered his voice some but kept talking, coming up with some folderol that sounded like it belonged in a yellow-backed novel. Eli didn't pay attention. He was busy unlocking Crewe's suitcase and grabbing his gun, and then easing over next to the door where he could concentrate on hearing what was happening in the hall.

A couple of minutes with Crewe rumbling on, raising his voice on words like "forgery," and "adultery," and Eli heard what he'd been listening for. Out in the hall, a meaty thump and the sounds of a tussle were followed by the impact of heavy bodies against the door to the room. Eli opened the door and stepped back just in time to avoid being trampled as Estevan, dressed in the white of a sanitarium attendant, pushed Kelly inside. Taking three strides back, Eli dropped the hand holding his .45 down low by his hip.

"Eli is armed, you'll observe," Crewe said, his voice now at its normal level. Estevan had let loose of Kelly while kicking the door shut with a heel.

Freed, Kelly surged up into a boxer's stance, and then stiffened at Crewe's words. His expression went from furious to wary. During all this, Eli kept backing up until he was against the far wall, well out of reach.

"He was searching Eli's room, Mr. Crewe," Estevan said, the phony accent gone. With an intricate gesture of the hand not holding an iron bit wrapped in a hotel towel, he added, "When he heard you coming down the corridor, he waited for you two to go into your room and then settled in to eavesdrop."

"Yes, I saw your signal on the door that he was about." Likely responding to some look in Kelly's eyes, Crewe said to him, "You should be more careful in other men's territories, Mr. Kelly. The people you don't judge worthy of notice can, in fact, be dangerous."

"I'll trade you your dollar tip back for returning my pass key early," Estevan offered to Kelly, a provocation that was likely deserved.

"Well, now." Kelly managed a smile. "It seems I misjudged you, Mr. Crewe."

"Very likely," Crewe said, and gestured to a chair. "Please sit down, Mr. Kelly. I'll try to keep this brief."

"Take your time, sir. I'm always interested in watching the local expert at work." He took one of the armchairs, one big enough to get up out of easily. That didn't keep Eli and Estevan from watching him with care.

Ignoring both of them, Crewe said, "I don't know what you're after, Mr. Kelly, and, frankly, I don't care. I don't want your enmity, and I don't need your services. All that I want you to do is answer a question." He nodded his head toward Eli. "If you were shot while robbing my room," his next nod was toward Estevan, "in front of a witness," his hands spread out into a brief gesture encompassing the room, "in a hotel owned by a former congressman, albeit a corrupt one, who I know well, do you think that would cause any problems for me?"

Kelly made a show of considering. "No. No, sir, I can't say that it would."

"I see that we understand each other. Don't bother me and mine, Mr. Kelly, and we won't bother you." Good: like usual, Crewe was staying on the right side of the thin line between making clear who'd won and rubbing a fellow's nose in his defeat.

"I think that's a deal I can live with," Kelly said. He was a professional; from his cheerful tone, you'd think he'd just agreed on which kind of cigarette included the best collectable cards in its boxes.

"Thank you. Please toss the passkey over to our friend, here. That's it." Crewe turned toward Estevan. "Would you see Mr. Kelly out?"

"Come this way, sir?" The terrible accent was back, and Estevan kept his distance as he held the door open. When Kelly paused in the doorway, Estevan told him, "I'll disappear after your visit here, just one of lots of Mexicans few Anglos can tell apart."

Although Kelly mostly looked to be ignoring Estevan, Eli thought he saw a tiny flare of the fellow's nostrils. Then Kelly asked Crewe, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a wee tale about Mrs. Crewe and Mr. William Crewe that I happened across?"

"I'm afraid not. Good evening, Mr. Kelly." Crewe didn't move or speak again until Kelly was out the door with Estevan after him, all set to watch Kelly's departure before he faded away among the sanitarium attendants.

Eli also kept still until Crewe said, his voice mild, "I wish you would take your finger off the trigger. You're making me nervous."

"The chamber under the hammer's not loaded just now. I didn't trust my temper."

"Haw. Of course. But should you be threatening a dangerous man with an unloaded gun?"

"No, sir. The next chamber was loaded." Eli had picked up his gun belt and slid his revolver back into its holster where it belonged. "Seeing as how my room's already been searched, maybe I can put this away in my own suitcase."

"And maybe I can get some sleep." He gave Eli a new kind of smile, one that hovered between wistful and hungry, but seemed he wasn't enough of a fool to try going to town in a Territory hotel with enemies about.

"I wonder what all that was, about Cousin William and Mrs. Crewe?" Eli asked, mostly to distract Crewe. His own gumption and good sense were feeling kind of tattered just now.

Crewe shook his head. "Perhaps we'll find out from John tomorrow." His lips twitched. "Good night, Eli. Please take your -- gun -- elsewhere."

Eli grinned. "Good night, sir. Harry. Your Imperialness. I'll do that." Quickly, he slipped out Crewe's door and across the corridor to his own room, to see if Kelly had knocked about Eli's things or been discrete in his searching.

Interesting, though, to find out what the feelings were that led a man to kiss his missus before he rode out in the morning. Interesting indeed.

***

Eli followed Crewe into the parlor occupied by the so-called Mr. John Crewe. It was a handsome room, filled with sunlight from the high windows and furniture that was pretty fancy, considering how every stick of it had to come with the railroad to Barranca and then on with a coach from there. No surprise that some of the items were the finest of Hispano pieces. Eli had heard Easterners call the local style quaint or odd. Nothing to compare with their civilized, Eastern furniture. Likely both styles looked like trash to John Crewe.

He might as well have worn his title branded on his forehead. Given how pale and sickly he seemed, Eli was amazed how his every move signaled the expectation that you'd defer. The fellow could carry it off, too. When Crewe entered the parlor ahead of Eli, John Crew's weak gesture made both his valet and his wife's maid exit the room like they'd been leaves blown away by the wave of his hand.

Then he looked up at Crewe. Even the whites of his eyes were kind of yellow. If this was him somewhat restored, he must have been halfway down the trail to Hades before he came to Ojo Caliente. "Sit," he told Crewe. His gaze shifted to Eli, still waiting behind Crewe, and his eyebrows hoisted in the mildest of questions.

"I'm afraid I never did follow your advice to get behind my hounds," Crewe said, no apology in his voice.

Eli didn't take the odd comment amiss. There was clearly some old score being settled here. Instead, at Crewe's glance, he took a seat. Crewe sat, too, in a winged armchair set closer to his brother's divan. Then he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, the Emperor to his fingertips. "You wished to see me?"

Brother John's lips quirked. "Oh, you have done well. Of course, I'd been given to understand that already." His next small gesture seemed restless. "Yes, I do want to see you. Do you know why?"

"I think I do, and I'm amazed. You didn't have me sign any papers before I left, not one blessed sheet. Is it possible that I'm not formally disinherited?"

The nod he got in reply to his question was regal enough for the King of England.

"Good Lord." Crewe hoisted his own eyebrows. "There's a way to spite Her Late Majesty."

"Are you in the habit of talking like this in front of your Spanish Bacchus, here?" his brother asked him.

"Mr. Fletcher can keep his own council. And he's more of an Achilles, with even that creeping up on him unexpectedly."

"I'd rather be Patroclus if I had to be anyone. Achilles was a fool," Eli put in. He didn't much like being talked about in front of his face.

"Good point," Crewe allowed, lips quirking. He turned back to his brother, who was also smiling faintly. The pair of them looked too much alike just then for Eli's peace of mind. "So, do you have something for me to sign?"

"Of course not. Would you allow William to inherit if you were me?"

The silence that followed was deep enough for Eli to hear the carriage clock on the mantle tick. Crewe finally broke the quiet, his voice rough. "Now you're being a fool. He's not as bad as all that, and I'd merely sell the unentailed property and return to New Mexico. Even if I were to take on the lands, you'd only be deferring your problem for another twenty years or so."

"I realize that. I was interested in hearing your answer, though."

"Very well, then. I choose my work here. I choose the River-R. Better an emperor in New Mexico than a--" Crewe broke off, and then said, tone rough, "I choose your remittance."

"Your remittance now, I believe."

"Ah? Granted, between the cattle boom collapsing and the utter mess the previous owner had made of his affairs, the bank acquired the River-R for an absurdly low price. Still, the money did come out of your pocket. A sum I can repay."

Brother John waved a weak hand. "Don't bother. Rather than a remittance, consider your ranch the compensation for my doing my best to cut you out of the line of inheritance."

"And a damned poor job you've done, not having had me sign--" Crewe broke off. He frowned. Slowly, his eyebrows rose. "Your efforts continue."

"Yes." His brother was carefully not smiling, an expression that Eli knew well from Crewe.

There was a pause. "I see," Crewe said. Eli would call his tone speculative. "You find the waters here restorative."

"Quite." Mr. John Crewe didn't seem much restored to Eli, but he wasn't a doctor.

"Mmph." Another pause. "Is there anything else you'd like?"

"For the most part, Louisa is kind enough to tend to my needs. However." Now the commanding voice was growing weak and languid. "Sunflowers, when appropriate. I still admire sunflowers, and the local ones are impressive enough to remind me of past pleasures."

"I'll remember that," Crewe said, his words now falling somewhere between gruff and gentle. "I can see you're tired."

"I am. Goodbye, Harry." Brother John's eyes slid shut as if they were too heavy to keep open.

"Goodbye, John." Crewe had stood up before he said, "A better parting than our last one."

"It is," his brother said without opening his eyes.

Abruptly, Crewe strode out of the room. Caught by surprise, Eli was just turning to follow him when Brother John asked, eyes still closed, "Patroclus, hmm?"

Eli considered him again. Now he looked ready to turn his toes up, which may be why Eli kept his tone easy when he said, "I think Mr. Crewe can manage his own affairs just fine, Your Grace."

"I suppose he can, Mr. Fletcher y Baca."

Shaking his head, Eli followed Crewe out of the room.

***

They left that very afternoon, taking the coach back to Barranca and then the train down to Santa Fe. Eli had thought that they'd continue on to Lamy where their trunks had been shipped to await them and where they could catch a train heading east. But Crewe strode away from the train platform in Santa Fe. "We'll be staying overnight here," he told Eli, who'd stepped quick to catch up with him.

They threaded their way through narrow and curving streets to a small adobe on a lane not far off the plaza. There, Crewe pulled out the key to a wooden door fitted with a modern lock. Once they were inside, Eli put down his suitcase and looked around. This small house was nicer than Eli would have thought from its outside. The corner fireplace, Indian rugs, and good, heavy furniture gave the place a Hispano rico air that he liked. Someone had laid on electricity, too, and water: all the luxuries.

At his questioning look, Crewe said, "A few years ago, I got tired of hotels where every politician in the Territory is told I'm in town five minutes after I check in."

Although he'd shared some Santa Fe hotel rooms with Crewe, Eli had never been in this house before. He could guess why. Keeping his face straight, he said, "Nice to have a place where you can entertain a guest."

"Haw. I wouldn't know. Until now, I've had more cause to loan out my refuge to visitors from the East and to Territory worthies, so they can entertain their guests. Or so I assume. I don't ask since I've been relying on the same sort of discretion in Manhattan." He cleared his throat. "Shall we go to dinner?"

Well, durned if Crewe wasn't displaying something that looked a lot like shyness. One for the records, but Eli didn't feel like teasing him. Much. "All right," he said.

They went over to the Exchange Hotel and, sure enough, a couple of Territorial legislators invited themselves over to Crewe's table to talk politics. He and Eli both refused their invitation to a poker game, though, pleading the next day's trip.

They got back to Crewe's little house and Eli turned away from bolting the front door to say, "Too bad. I guess you're not going to be able to bring me here very often."

Crewe stopped dead, his hand still raised from hanging his Stetson on the coat rack. Then his head tilted just a little. "Oh?"

"Everyone knows you in this town. Someone would notice. So, you might as well enjoy your few chances as they come." He strolled over to Crewe. "How about, this time, I take off my boots?" He started helping Crewe out of his coat.

Crewe's lips twitched. "How civilized."

"Yep. And I see no more need for this suit."

"I notice you're assuming that we're continuing our--irregular connection."

"Well, you're not exactly the first fellow to bed your secretary." Eli was no valet, but he'd make an exception when he was heated up like this. He knelt to help Crewe with his share of the boot problem. "I can always go elsewhere if things turn sour. I was already thinking about California. Maybe down around Los Angeles."

"Good Lord. And with your temper, too. I suppose that makes it my duty to see things don't turn sour."

Crewe had yanked his combinations top off over his head, and he paused with it in hand to look down at Eli. He sure was fine, all pale skin over hard muscles with barely more hair on his body than a Greek statue had. Although he didn't show the shortcoming Eli had noticed about that breed of statues. He had some heft, there.

Done dealing with Crewe's boots and belt buckle, Eli reached to cup an assessing hand around the good-sized bulge in front of him. "You want me to return your favor?" He saw Crewe's shudder and felt the cock in his grip harden a touch more beneath the cotton cloth.

In that good, husky voice of his, Crewe said, "Some other time. Given that I can look forward to other times, I have a different suggestion for you this evening." He stepped away and both hands went to his trouser waistband. "Let me finish stripping here before I help you with your boots. Then I'd like you to bugger me."

That got Eli up and working on his shirt buttons as fast as he could. When he ripped one loose and lost it on the floor, he decided to crawl around later. Just now, it was much more fun to drop into one of the leather chairs and have a naked Crewe kneel before him, smiling sardonically, to slowly tug off both of Eli's boots. The bit where Crewe leaned forward to roughly caress what he found between Eli's thighs was fun, too.

By the time Crewe was done with his boots and stood up, Eli had to stand himself, yank Crewe close, kiss him a few times, and slide his own hands down to get a good grip on that horseman's ass. The flush on Crewe's face as Eli thrust against his naked belly was just about as hot as the friction of his skin against Eli's cock. And Eli sure enjoyed the feel of Crewe's hardness pushed up against him, already wet at the tip and slicking across both their skins.

Pale as he was, Crewe always carried balm for his skin when he traveled. Eli had figured the stuff might have more uses than soothing sunburns, but he hadn't dared imagine the way Crewe would use it now. After searching through his suitcase with urgent efficiency, Crewe put on a show with two fingers, handed over the bottle, and went in to strip back the covers on the bed as Eli got rid of the last of his clothing. Naked at last, Eli came in to find Crewe looking at him in the light from the bedside lamp, gaze fit to set him on fire.

Eli swallowed, and then asked him, "You acquainted with your laundress?"

"Yes." Crewe shook his head, his gaze never wavering. "You're so very-- I'm not even sure there are words."

"How about 'I'm gonna ride your ass so hard you'll feel it all the way to Manhattan?'"

Crewe's lips pursed in amusement, but Eli saw his cock twitch. "I suppose those will do."

Eli grabbed him and hauled him over to the bed.

His ass was sweet and tight as Eli fucked him, hot and slick with the lotion. Down on his knees again, his forearms braced against the headboard, Crewe pressed his face against the pillows and cussed as he rode back into Eli's thrusts. Above him, Eli couldn't keep from pausing now and then to run his hands along Crewe's skin, a cowhand's skin, both rough and smooth beneath his own rough fingertips.

The muscles of Crewe's back were gleaming with sweat; Eli pushed deep inside, leaned forward, and licked at him. Crewe made a broken noise, strained back, and Eli shoved a hand between him and the feather mattress to see if he could catch Crewe's cock and strip him as he spent.

He could. Oh yes, he could. And the tightness, the spill on his hand and Crewe's skin, the strong pitching beneath him was enough to push him into the last, hard strokes he needed for his own release. Was that high, harsh whine his? Pleasure wiped clean the question from his brain.

Although he was too lean and muscled to make a good pillow, it was still pleasant to sprawl across Crewe's warmth, cradled by his ass. The light through the curtains was gradually fading from dim to dark. After a while, though, Crewe made a sound of protest, and Eli carefully rolled loose from him to land on his back.

"I refuse to move," Crewe said, his face still muffled against the pillows.

"I'll get a wet rag in a minute," Eli promised. He thought about shifting his hand, which was resting on the small of Crewe's back, and didn't. Crewe had his hand resting on Eli's shoulder anyhow.

"So very generous," Crewe told the pillow. He didn't say anything else until Eli heaved himself up, went to fetch the rag, and cleaned them both up. Then Crewe rolled over, caught Eli's free hand, and kissed the palm.

Eli considered this. "Feeling moony?"

"Why not?" Crewe asked, tone dry.

He did have a point. Eli leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, straightened up, and went to dump the rag in the basin in the kitchen. He called back, "I still don't know what your relatives were up to, visiting you like that."

"I'd say William made the trip to guard his interests. You'll notice that I didn't respond to any of his hints about our hunting together, although that may have been unneeded caution."

"All right, but what about Her Grace? I thought she was plotting something with William, there, until I saw her talking about her Mister."

"We were right about her assessing me. But I think we misjudged what she sought to learn." Eli came back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Crewe had rolled over, tucked both hands behind his head on the pillows, and was studying the log beams supporting the ceiling as he spoke. "Have you noticed that both William and I resemble John?"

"Yep." Eli was sure his confusion showed.

When Crewe spoke again, his words were wry. "Well. I believe the waters of Ojo Caliente will prove to have done John a world of good, even if he weakens again. In fact, I expect Louisa's offspring will nudge me away from the succession about nine months from now. Granted, I wasn't useful in the way I might have been, but at least John knows now I won't protest if pushed back from the succession by a less than authentic heir. And if William is crude enough to hunt after the wife of a dying man and fool enough to let her double back on him--" He shook his head. "--then I see why John dislikes him so." His gaze shifted to Eli. "You're shocked. I did warn you that Louisa could kick unexpectedly. She did it for John, and she'll need that strength."

"How--" Eli swallowed his first protest, thought, and asked, "What if she has a girl?"

"Theirs is a gamble." His gaze shifted back to the ceiling beams. "But John knows I couldn't bring myself to break up the inheritance if there was a female heir."

Slowly, Eli said, "So that's the wee tale Kelly had to tell about William and Mrs. Crewe."

"I don't think he grasped her motives, and he certainly didn't understand John's role, but I do think he suspected the liaison. Really, it's not wise to neglect your maid in a foreign land."

Eli shook his head. "This life in High Society is too primitive for me."

Crewe's brief glance at him was heading back toward shy. "Perhaps it's just as well, then, that I don't want the title."

"It would be a step down anyhow, Emperor to lowly nobleman."

Crewe snorted, but sounded pleased. "I suppose you're right." More gruffly, he added, "You might as well share this bed."

"Sure, after we made a mare's nest of it," Eli said, getting under the covers.

They settled in. Silence fell, warm and contented, only broken when Crewe finally said, "You didn't turn off the light."

"Now, is that the manly self-reliance that has made this Territory strong?"

There was a pause. Then Eli got the response he really should have expected. Oh, well. If you were setting out to ride the King Stallion, you shouldn't be much surprised when he kicked.

**Author's Note:**

> I've included some offish language and shady acts based on origins here, although I believe nothing particularly harsh by the standards of that time. But, for the sake of both history and story, I didn't want to blithely ignore either the painful clashes or the fruitful interactions between subcultures in what was (and is) a minority-majority Territory/State. Feedback or questions are welcome.
> 
> This story was originally published commercially through a small press, but all rights have reverted to me, where they remain. The usual fandom, not-for-profit permissions apply. Given the obvious fannish influences and tropes, it seemed possible to post it here. I hope you enjoy!


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